


Continental Breakfast

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: BAMF!John Wick, Crack Treated Seriously, Improbable Backstory, John Wick Has Both CIA (Spy Organization) Training And CIA (Cooking School) Training, Leftover Hitmen, M/M, Poached Eggs, The Continental Exists but Everything Else is AU, Winston is charmed but confused, everyone needs a hobby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: John makes Winston breakfast and doesn’t kill anyone. Winston is Profoundly Disturbed.





	Continental Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).

> The other CIA stands for Culinary Institute of America. I lol’d and then had to write this tag. They do have a very active [Youtube channel](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwS4C6uPc9jkKz1OgJrPihg) but probably don’t offer online courses. Anyway, it’s breathtaking!
> 
> (flowerdeluce and ictus are champion betas.)

Something no one ever told you about being a hitman: it wasn’t exactly glamorous work. 

After all, most contracts were timely buggers. Bodies had to drop rain or shine, and as the hotel’s longtime proprietor, Winston had seen things, barely upright passing themselves as men crawling into the Continental lobby at all hours. 

He’d heard worse too, like the time a sniper had stared into a hotel room in Singapore for something like fifteen hours, gotten so offended at the mark’s lackluster sexual practices, and blew up the whole floor prematurely. No one had that kind of time. 

(Said sniper had gotten into a bit of trouble.) 

“Yeah,” John snorted as he sliced fat blood oranges like he cut open a man’s arteries but somehow, the motion looked unnatural when it was being performed on fruit. Or maybe Winston was still half asleep. “At least, that’s what he _tells_ people. Do you want to know what I think happened?” 

Winston went to pour himself a mug of coffee. “What do you think happened, Jonathan?” 

“I think he ran out of instant noodles and needed a piss.” John said, and not very kindly.

“That’s -” Winston had to think. “Specific?” 

With a neat flick of his wrist, John began picking the seeds out of the slices of blood orange. Each time he did, he flicked the seed into a nearby glass bowl and it _pinged_, making a most satisfying sound. “I’d know, wouldn’t I?” 

“So you keep telling me.” 

Something else they didn’t exactly tell you about being a hitman: the gig accumulated a fair amount of stragglers. That is, people who were leftover from other professions; people who hated their regular jobs and took up contract killing as a lark. Despite what Winston’s own esteemed opinion about his industry, there were always worse places of employment, which was not entirely a surprise. 

Case in point, one John Wick, formerly of the Central Intelligence Agency, who was most recently in the middle of Winston’s kitchen making him - 

“What are you doing?” 

“Making you breakfast,” John said evenly. “Might as well put what the CIA’s taught me to some use. How do you like your eggs?” 

“Erm,” Winston had to think about it. “Poached. I suppose. Wasn’t aware that the CIA provided that sort of training.”

“Sure they do.” John gave him a look like Winston was some kind of an idiot. “Granted, I had to do most of it online since I was on suspension.” He cracked two eggs, dropping them carefully into two other bowls. “It took me a long time to master these. Is there a slotted spoon anywhere?” 

Winston gestured. “Try over there?” Being in possession of a great kitchen didn’t mean that he knew his way around it, and he’d never felt ashamed as such, until now. He watched as John selected a spoon from the rack of other utensils. Part of him wanted to wince, since the last time John had wielded a spoon, somebody had lost an eye.

But instead, John took the spoon and used it to stir up a gentle vortex in the pot of boiling water. It was only when the man seemed satisfied with the rhythm of the water did he drop in the eggs, ever careful. If Winston looked carefully, he could see the beginnings of the same technique used to put these very implements towards bodily harm. 

Soon, Winston found himself staring at an astounding array of breakfast items, arranged neatly like a corpse about to undergo an examination in the city morgue. The paradox remained compelling, even if it didn’t dampen Winston’s appetite when it should have. The spread included poached eggs, with yolks running down the side of golden-crisped toast. There was also several strips of bacon and mushrooms that looked like they’d been fried off in garlic. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” John said, setting down a glass of blood red orange juice next to him. 

“I’m just trying to discern how awful the Central Intelligence Agency’s cafeteria would have been to compel you to do...this.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh. I meant cooking school. The Culinary Institute of America. My superiors said that having a hobby would help me manage my issues.”

As far as Winston was aware, John was still very much in possession of those issues and it could be argued at length that allowing John Wick continued access to kitchenware was Not Helping. But at least he was in good company this time around. So Winston ate some eggs and was pleased to find that they were even salted to taste. 

“Anyway,” John strode over to him and dropped a kiss to Winston’s hairline. After that, he straightened up again. “I promised the kitchen I’d help with the lunch rush. One of the line cooks got into it with a butcher and now he’s missing a thumb. Will you come down for lunch?”


End file.
